


Gentler Lover Needed

by Sparcina



Series: Gotham at Night [12]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Caring Oswald, Champagne, Confessions, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Lube 101, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Rimming, Very fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21754012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcina/pseuds/Sparcina
Summary: Jim’s limping, and for once, it’s not because of a fight. Oswald wants to kill the man who has obviously taken his pleasure at the detective's expense. (He yearns to kiss it all better.)Thankfully for star-crossed lovers, the champagne’s the only thing that’s average tonight.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Series: Gotham at Night [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1476773
Comments: 14
Kudos: 97
Collections: Gobblepot Winter 2019





	Gentler Lover Needed

**Author's Note:**

> For Gobblepot Winter 2019. Bingo case: too much champagne (amended: just enough champagne, to lower inhibitions a tad and help with confidence issues).
> 
> Happy Christmas, Gobblepot lovers!

Oswald noticed at once, but then it didn’t take a genius to figure out the reason behind Jim’s limp. Oh, it was not _that_ conspicuous; the detective had always been good at pretending… whereas Oswald preferred the blunt truth, however much it hurt, with all its sharp angles and searing edges.

He didn’t leave his stool at the bar just yet, indulging in some more Jim-watching. Crossing his legs to hide his budding erection, he let his eyes wander, savoring the sight of Jim’s perfectly shaped behind clad in cheap linen. Heat pooled in his groin as he pictured his own hands squeezing those alluring butt cheeks, as he fantasized joining Jim by the buffet table and throwing a proprietary arm around that trim waist. Was Jim the kind of lover who let his partner get away with a little necking in public? Would he let Oswald (it was his fantasy; sue him) drag him away in a closet for a quick blow job? Would their sex life ever become so commonplace that his body wouldn’t get turned on like an X-rated Christmas tree every time those blue eyes trained on him? Every time they touched, accidentally or otherwise? God, just hearing Jim’s voice was enough to get him all hot and bothered, and they hadn’t exactly met yesterday.

He probably would never tire of Jim Gordon, naked or otherwise, he reflected as he emptied his flute of champagne. He’d made peace (or liked to pretend he had) with the fact that nothing would ever happen between them, be it of the sexual or the romantic variety. He was no fool: Jim was a sensual creature who could never be satisfied by one partner, and as far as Oswald knew, Jim liked his bedmates without a Y chromosome.

And without a very, _very_ red ledger.

He tolerated the jealousy (i.e. he killed people left and right, much to Zsasz’s delight, who got to off a few assholes on his own). He embraced the heat that made his dreams a little less dry, and a lot more painful. He made do with his unrequited feelings, just like he made do with the chronic pain in his leg.

He wished he could hate Jim Gordon, but one look was all it took. Like right now: Jim glancing over his shoulder, probably feeling Oswald’s gaze on him, and meeting his eyes dead-on. And, _God_ , he was smiling, and not that grimace-ish smile either: a brilliant grin that reached his gorgeous blue eyes and made them shine. He looked happy, which was a damn achievement in Gotham.

And then a wince wiped it away—the wince of someone who’d forgotten they were hurting.

Oswald’s hand tightened on his glass.

“Everything okay, boss?”

Zsasz was hovering nearby, a hip cocked against the bar, one hand close to one of his many holsters. He looked positively grim, as if the festive atmosphere of the ballroom was a personal insult to his job, or his life philosophy, maybe. Unless it was the champagne, which wasn’t top quality… unlike what was slowly burning a hole in the inner pocket of Oswald’s black jacket. Worst habits died hard, and the hope that someday he would appeal to Jim long enough to use the small tube in this pocket was resistant to all his attempts to crush it.

And he’d tried. Repeatedly.

“Everything’s fine, Zsasz.” He glared at Bullock, because it always made him feel a little better, no matter what was wrong. “Just… Have some champagne. It’s Christmas, for fuck’s sake.”

“I don’t drink on the job, boss. Besides, that champagne smells like it would taste-

Oswald would never know what the champagne tasted like in Zsasz’s opinion, because Jim had just made a not-quite-swift one-eighty on Bullock and was heading in _his_ direction, wincing a little more with each step.

Oswald wanted to kill the excuse of a human being who’d had his way with Jim last night.

He yearned to take his time kissing it all better.

Oswald made sure he had a firm grip on those feelings that didn’t seem to have an off switch before he hopped off his stool, adding the final touch of casual indifference to his ‘Jim, my dear friend’ mask.

“Good evening, Jim.”

Jim’s lips went wince-smile-wince-smile in time with the red and green lights on the sixteen-foot-tall Christmas tree towering over the buffet. “Hey yourself. Nice party, uh? Not that the champagne’s that good, but hey, it’s drinkable.”

Obviously, Jim had indulged in more than a sip—enough to sound a little less angry and stressed out than usual, and to keep smiling-wincing-smiling. That easy-going vibe both warmed and twisted something in Oswald’s guts. He himself was well on his way to tipsy, which was probably the reason he forewent the usual pleasantries to shoot himself in the foot. With a rocket launcher.

“You are in pain, James.”

Jim’s smile faltered a bit, and red slowly crept up his cheeks. “Stuff… happened.”

Oswald stiffened. “Stuff that didn’t involve the appropriate preparation, obviously.”

Surely Rudolph’s nose would never be as red as Jim’s face right now. Oswald expected an outburst, a clear show of anger, but Jim didn’t offer a reply. He just stood there radiating embarrassment, even… shame? Oswald _did_ love to have the last word, and loved even more the red dusting Jim’s cheeks, but satisfaction was the last thing on his mind right now. He still struggled to believe that Jim would let someone fuck him without the proper prep. Oswald himself was all about a good hard fuck, but Jim had been on the receiving end of something definitely rougher.

And he must know it, too. His eyes darted back and forth between the empty flute in Oswald’s hand and his own shoes, never quite meeting Oswald’s gaze. Suddenly, the tube of lube in Oswald’s breast pocket weighed a ton. With a hand that was trembling just a little, he reached inside his jacket and pressed it into Jim’s palm, momentarily forgetting how to breathe as Jim’s eyes went wide.

“Are you giving me-”

“I am,” Oswald cut him, wondering what the hell he was trying to prove, beside how pathetically obvious his concern (and crush) was. “Your partner _obviously_ ran out of the good stuff last night,” he added through his teeth.

“We- It’s not-” Jim tried to give the tube back to him, but Oswald was blushing just as hard now and pushed the tube back in turn. That game of reverse tug-of-the-war went on for several seconds, until Jim pursed his lips and pocketed the tube with a wince that may or may not have to do with his current predicament.

“Why are you giving me lube, exactly?”

“Because you need it.” The next words, much more incriminating, rushed out in the wake of that honest admission. “You should not allow anyone to treat you like this. To… use your body for their own pleasure, instead of-” _caring for you, worshiping you, like you deserve_. “You know what I mean,” he mumbled bitterly.

Jim’s scrutiny intensified. “Do I? How, pray tell, should I be treated, _Oswald_?”

The way he spelled out his name, drawing out the two syllables like he meant to savor their shape in his mouth, their ring in the warm air, reminded Oswald that he wasn’t sitting anymore, and that his erection must be glaringly obvious by this point.

Jim’s eyes didn’t stray away from his, as if the sheer magnetism Oswald had felt from him all this time was working both ways at last. “How…” With two steps, he bridged the distance between them. His right knee brushed against Oswald’s inner tight, sending a jolt of arousal up his spine. “… would _you_ treat me?” he asked, no, _demanded_ to know, eyes ablaze, challenging him.

Or, perhaps, pleading.

Oswald opened his mouth, but he couldn’t think of any reply that would convey the magnitude of his affection.

In the end, he forewent words entirely.

*

Thankfully for everyone, or rather, for Oswald’s possessive streak, they found an unoccupied office on the second floor, far away from the ballroom and the _crème de la crème_ of Gotham celebrating. Zsasz was temporarily downgraded from BAMFest killer in town to hurried nuptials guard, and like the consummate professional he was, he took it in all in stride with a casual ‘have fun, but not _too_ much’ before going about his first round of Do Not Disturb.

Jim, Oswald discovered the second the doors were closed and locked behind them, kissed much like he lived: hot and urgent, brimming with passion, without a lick of restraint. His kisses were all tongue and teeth, and Oswald’s lips tingled like crazy—he felt seconds away from a heart attack, it was so much better and vivid than every dream he’d ever had. Jim was as demanding in this as he was in the other aspects of his life, and Oswald felt his cock throb as strong hands slammed him against the door, as Jim’s grunts became mingled with his own moans of abandon. Jim tasted like champagne, but salty, too, with a hint of coffee, and Oswald sucked on his tongue like he wanted to suck his dick.

“More,” Jim panted, mouthing at Oswald’s jaw, pressing the hard line of his cock into Oswald’s hip.

Oswald’s fingers were already undoing the top button of Jim’s shirt, hands sure and steady in spite of his senses going haywire. If Jim was shocked at his assurance, he didn’t comment on it. Oswald could be nothing _but_ confident: he’d spent the better part of a year anticipating this moment, believing it would never come to be, and he peeled away the offending layers of cheap fabric off Jim’s body with reverence, mouthing wetly at skin marred and unblemished, fingers eager, tongue inquisitive and clever, so impatient to discover if the taste of Jim’s skin matched the one in his fantasies.

(It was even delicious. More complex, salty, musky, sweaty, _addictive_ ).

Considering the complexity of his own wardrobe, he was quick in getting Jim naked, and even quicker in kneeling at his feet, his bad knee be damned. Jim started to voice his concern, but Oswald had ample practice working around his injured leg.

“It is such a small price to pay to look at you like this, James,” he promised, and he knew that if he dug the heel of his palm into his crotch and pressed just so, he would come without the slightest skin contact.

Jim’s throat bobbed, as if he could read that knowledge in Oswald’s expression. “You wear too many clothes,” he groaned, and promptly tugged at Oswald’s tie, as if to better convey his point.

Oswald gently detached Jim’s fingers from the soft piece of dark purple silk. “There’s only one handsome man in this room, James, and he’s already naked,” he said without a trace of self-pity; it was the truth, pure and simple. “Let me-”

Between one heartbeat and the next, their positions were reversed, and it was Jim who was kneeling, his hands pinning Oswald’s hips to the desk, mouth so close to his straining erection Oswald’s knees wobbled.

“I said: too many clothes,” James growled.

And before Oswald knew it, the entirety of his evening attire was gone, silk boxer briefs included, and Jim’s mouth was at his throat, his broad hands roaming over his exposed chest. He’d never had his nipples played with before, and he discovered he liked it; unless it was another Jim thing, but he shelved that thought for later and relished the sting of pleasure-pain as Jim played with the hardening buds of flesh, twisting them and licking them and _fuck,_ it felt amazingly good.

Not as good, of course, as Jim’s mouth on his cock. To his utmost shame, he climaxed as soon as Jim lapped at his glans. “I must… apologize,” he panted, torn between embarrassment and satisfaction as he drank in the sight of Jim on his knees, pearly cum glistening all over his mouth and chin, pupils blown wide. “This was supposed to be about me taking care of you, and instead…” He dropped to his knees and licked his own semen off Jim’s skin, carding one trembling hand through gelled blond hair. “Here I am. I shall-”

James’s hand went to his nape, fingers splayed as if to cover as much skin as possible. He licked what was left of Oswald’s cum off his chin. “You taste much better.”

Oswald easily inferred the rest of that sentence. Perhaps he would reward Zsasz’s watch tonight by sending him after the man who had dared hurt Jim. And pay him his Holiday Bonus a little early. “Let me make it up to you,” he purred.

Jim definitely appreciated Oswald’s mouth on him, and he was quite generous with his praise, but he steadfastly refused to fuck Oswald.

“I want to, definitely, but not tonight,” he rasped, voice low and dark, one hand cupping Oswald’s face, the other busy bringing Oswald’s cock back to full hardness.

Oswald had barely a few seconds to savor the knowledge that there would be other nights like this, quality time with Jim outside of his own imagination, beyond the simple use of his hand on himself, before another miracle occurred.

“Tonight,” Jim whispered in his ear, nibbling at his earlobe, “I want you inside me.”

The lube was top-of-the-shelf quality, and Oswald used plenty as he probed at Jim’s rim oh so gently, but that pink hole looked a little _too_ well used, and Oswald really wished (just for a second) that he didn’t care so much. “We should wait, James,” he said regretfully, kissing the butt cheek closest to lips. “I don’t want to hurt you-”

“You won’t,” Jim grunted, and Oswald’s finger resumed its massage instantly, as if Jim’s will had a direct connexion with Oswald’s body. “I want you to fuck me. I… damn it, Oswald, I need you.”

No more than Oswald needed him, surely, but he had his mouth full already, sucking Jim’s cock with gusto as he lathered his hole with lube, raging inwardly at how sore it must feel. Yet Jim didn’t make a single sound of pain (quite the opposite), and soon enough, Oswald had his index finger wrapped into velvety heat all the way to the last knuckle.

“May I suggest bending over the desk for this, James?”

Apparently, the lines from his dreams worked in real life, and Oswald felt elated as Jim did precisely that, legs parted, back arched to better present himself. He took his time opening him up, more time than Jim deemed it necessary, going by the way he rocked back against his fingers, but part of the prep was entirely for his own pleasure: he _loved_ to eat Jim’s ass as he stretched him, and he needed to mark him in as many ways he could, in as many ways Jim would let him. The lube wasn’t technically edible, but Oswald couldn’t care less as he dipped his tongue in between two fingers and pressed it in as far as it would go—Jim made the prettiest noises as he fucked back on Oswald’s tongue and fingers, a litany of _yes_ and _more_ interspaced with his name.

Oswald wanted to devour him whole.

“Give me your cock,” Jim moaned. “Please.”

Oswald wished he could see his face—to memorize every single line of it, to know if he looked as wrecked as he sounded, to see if the blush went down his throat, or up to the tip of his ears. Would Jim blush so easily when he was entirely sober? Oswald slicked his cock generously with the rest of the lube, doing his very best to keep unsexy thoughts as the sexiest man in existence begged with his whole body to be filled up.

“Come on, Oswald, need you…” Jim reached clumsily for his crack and pressed the tip of his thumb in his hole. “So empty…”

“It’s all right.” Oswald captured the straying hand and set it back on the desk. He let his own atop it, thumb caressing the soft stretch of skin between thumb and index finger. “I’m going to take such good care of you, James.”

Oswald had always been the good little soldier where Jim was concerned, always on his best behavior for him. Mind devoid of thought, he rubbed the head of his cock against Jim’s wet rim, desire sizzling thorough his body as Jim reached back to spread his own asscheeks for better access. Oswald was not as thick as Jim was, only a little longer, but getting the first half in still took some work.

“God, that feels good,” Jim mumbled, hips rolling unevenly, biceps flexing.

He had one side of his face pressed against the desk, a dreamy cast to his features, and Oswald stared his fill as he tumbled lovingly at the slick rim stretching increasingly taut around his erection. “Let me- Here, that’s perfect.”

“Oswald,” Jim whined at the first touch of a hand on his cock. “ _Oswald_.”

Oswald jerked him off slowly, completely drunk on the need in Jim’s voice. Inch by inch, he pressed forward, deeper into Jim’s slowly relaxing channel, until his balls grazed Jim’s asscheeks.

“God,” he choked, squeezing Jim’s side. He was beyond overwhelmed, and he didn’t have enough wits about him to remember if there was a word for such a state. “James…”

“More.” Jim’s nails dug into his ass cheeks. “Oz, please.”

Oswald’s ever-thinning control snapped at once. He pulled back almost all the way out before plunging back in, not nearly as gentle as he should be, but Jim only demanded _more_ , _please_ , and Oswald was just a man, and Jim was the man he’d been in love with for so long, so intensely, that he knew there would be no one like him _ever_.

So he fucked Jim— _made love_ to him like he’d done already a thousand times in his mind, pouring all of his love into this act of communion. Jim was wanton and loud, and Oswald needed more, branded in his mind for all the nights to come. Hands clasped on Jim’s hips, he set a steady rhythm of deep thrusts that had Jim squirming and gasping and clawing at the desk like Oswald really was stimulating his prostate as well as he thought he was.

Oswald climaxed first—at Jim’s request, and he felt a surge of pure, unadulterated _want_ when Jim climaxed not even a second later, his orgasm triggered by the hot cum ( _Oswald’s_ cum) flooding his asshole.

Jim came for a second time about fifteen minutes later with his cock down Oswald’s throat.

“You sound like you’ve given the speech of your life,” Jim said languidly, commenting on the roughness of Oswald’s voice.

The possessive gleam in his eyes did _something_ to the jagged pieces of Oswald’s heart. It was that very same look, he knew, the mirror returned him whenever he thought of Jim.

They kissed for a long time. It involved less teeth, this time, and the urgency from before was gone. It was still sexual, but it was something else, too. A trade in affection.

Oswald swallowed back a sob.

“Fuck, we should have been doing this a long time ago,” Jim chuckled, pulling Oswald in his lap to kiss the tip of his nose. “You’re such a considerate lover. You have lovely freckles.”

Oswald rubbed their noses together. He wasn’t sure there was a connexion between those two statements, but he couldn’t care less; he was so goddamn _happy_. “Never set the bar any lower in the future, please.”

He could have smacked himself—of course, he had to do the stupid thing and offer Jim an out. Jim, who could never be satisfied with him, least of all him alone…

… or so he thought. “Is that a promise?” Jim’s eyes were very wide, insecurity written in them. Hope, too.

Oswald felt like crying for entirely new reasons, and he burrowed his face in Jim’s neck. “I must warn you: I am very possessive.”

Jim hugged him fiercely. “You’re many things that I like, Oswald.”

“Isn’t liking me counterproductive in your line of work, _detective_?”

Oswald mentally smacked himself. If Self-Sabotage 101 had been a class, he would have aced it.

Jim huffed. “It is, but this…” he drew back just enough to kiss him full on the lips, “isn’t about the mob or the GCPD.”

“You’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right.”

They were still kissing when Zsasz knocked at the door. “Boss? I hope you’re done, ’cause Bullock’s breathing down my neck, and the last time I asked, I was not to kill any friend of your… whatever you are to each other now.”

“Let’s go to my place,” Jim suggested, and he was blushing again.

“I’d rather you come to mine. Unless you have the good stuff?”

Jim’s answer came in the form of his underwear thrown at his chest. “ _You_ ’re the good stuff, hot stuff. Let’s go.”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Oswald purred.

On the other side of the door, Bullock handed Zsasz a twenty with a muttered curse.


End file.
